


Wish You Were Here

by cryptonym



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Human Experimentation, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptonym/pseuds/cryptonym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Snape] leans on the table, towering over me like a vulture watching its prey, his eyes boring into me. “If I were in your position, I would be considering my history as I know it. If you are here now, you were always meant to be here.”</p><p><b>Career Choices:</b> Harry: Time Traveller; Draco: Time Trial Test Subject</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wish You Were Here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [momatu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/momatu/gifts).



> For [Prompt #114](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NnIZtnyWEqbQHgi3U6N1CwbznCTkDeZGWJqgEw6KRrQ/).
> 
> Dear momatu, to say this fic is loosely based on your prompt is somewhat of an understatement. Time travel was the jumping off point, any other similarity is purely coincidental. It kind of got away from me. I am sorry about that, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. 
> 
> Dear mods, thank you for your patience and tolerance while I grappled with writing this and actually getting it finished.
> 
> Dear M, thank you for talking me down from the ledge, several times - this fic owes its life to you.

~o~

I open my eyes to a nightmare.

I am standing before the vanishing cabinet in the Room of Requirement. A shiver runs down my spine. It’s a horrible thing, the black wood seems to draw all the light into its depths. The magic emanating from it is not pleasant. That familiar sense of terror, helplessness and desperation floods back in an instant.

Something is very wrong. I have a lurching, sick feeling in my stomach and I don’t want to look round in case I see that raging inferno bearing down on me again. I can almost feel the heat licking at the nape of my neck.

 _Pull yourself together_. My father’s voice cuts through the fear like a shard of ice.

Something crashes to the ground and a familiar voice curses, bringing me to my senses.

I step behind a mound of broken chairs and desks just in time. I watch as he - my younger self - places a hand against the wood. It sets off a sense memory in my fingertips and across my palm. I remember the stutter of broken magic trying to connect with that running through my veins.

It is a strange feeling - watching. Frustrating. His wand movements aren’t crisp enough for the incantation. He is going to fail. Of course I know that anyway, I remember every visit to this cursed room. With my heart racing, I want to step out and instruct him. But of course I can’t. I shouldn’t want to. If anything, I should wish to stop this.

My younger self places a bird inside the cabinet and closes the door. I feel the moment the bird leaves. Did I feel it back then? I don’t know. I don’t think so. It doesn’t have a sense of familiarity about it.

He repeats the process in reverse. I know what he will find, but I can’t turn away. I watch as his face crumples. Merlin… I can feel his terror closing its cold fist around my heart, squeezing, as he breaks down. I want to shake him, to tell him to stop being so pathetic, that he needs to _try harder_. Fortunately he flees the room before I can do anything of the sort.

I step out from my hiding place. The door of the cabinet is hanging open - the mangled, broken body of the tiny bird is still there, on the floor. I vanish it with a grimace and close the door. The magic stutters and buzzes and jumps out giving me hundreds of tiny shocks.

I sigh heavily. I am supposed to be seven years from now and hundreds of miles away. Salazar’s teeth, how did this go so wrong? I shouldn’t be _here_ and how in Merlin’s name am I going to manage to stay out of sight for the three days I have? I refuse to consider the possibility that I’ll be trapped here for longer than that. In the meantime I cannot hide out in this room. I’ll go mad. There is only one person I can think of to turn to for help.

This vast cavern should be difficult to negotiate, and yet I find the path to the door easily. A quick Tempus tells me that the students should be in the Great Hall for supper. I cast a Disillusionment charm over myself and open the door a crack. The corridor is still and quiet.

I tread the well worn path to Snape’s dungeon rooms, passing the Slytherin dormitories and common room. I sense the wards before I trip over them - Snape isn’t there of course. He’ll be in the Hall with everyone else. There are restrictions placed on the use of my wand that won’t allow me to take down the wards. I cast warming and cushioning charms on the stone floor, and sit down opposite, pressed close to the wall with my feet drawn close, to avoid tripping anyone who should venture this way. I feel like a child again.

Hours pass agonisingly slowly. Even with the charms my backside falls asleep. I am also hungry and thirsty, my bladder is starting to make itself known and above all I am irritated beyond belief. I want to strangle the imbecile who sent me back here.

I’m just thinking about the suitably devastating cuts I am going to make to the moron in charge of the trial, that I almost don’t catch the quiet steps and the whisper of robes as Snape approaches.

He takes down his wards with a practised swish of his wand, pushing open the heavy door. I haven’t moved a muscle since he appeared in the corridor and yet he looks straight at me, his black eyes emotionless, and gestures for me to get inside with a tiny jerk of his chin.

I scramble up from the floor, my legs protesting after so long in one position, and stumble in just as Snape closes the door with his wand, nearly knocking me flying.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t say a word, but passes through the sitting room to the bed chamber. I can feel the buzz of magic against my skin and a sense of being compressed, the air deadened. His privacy wards in here are strong to the point of paranoia.

He rounds on me and I brace myself to repel his Legilimens skills, but instead he rips the button off my shirt cuff, pushing it up my arm to reveal the Mark, pressing his wand tip to it, watching the thing come alive, writhing and pulsing in a way it hasn’t for years, and I can feel that phantom burning more keenly than ever.

I jerk my arm away, covering it with my hand.

“Satisfied?” I ask, furious.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good evening to you too, Professor,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow at me, his lip curling in disgust.

Moving on then. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I say. “It was an accident.”

He studies me. Being scrutinised by Snape is not the most comfortable experience, but he still doesn’t try to use Legilimens on me.

“I have just returned from the infirmary,” he says.

For such simple words they hit me like a Bludger. I hesitate but I know what he’s asking me and, after all, he did save me. I unbutton my shirt and show him the silvery scars. There is a flicker of emotion in his eyes then, quickly closed off.

“Very well,” he says. He moves away from me. His room is large - dark and oppressive though it is. He indicates for me to take a seat by the unlit fireplace.

“Listen, Sna… Professor…” What on earth am I supposed to call the man I haven’t seen for ten years?

My heart sinks - I have the knowledge of his death, the date and some if not all the details, in my memory. And _of course_ he didn’t read my mind. Trying to resist seeing that would be futile. Every single memory of him is linked to that ultimate destiny. The self-possession it must take to resist even a glimpse into my future is immense. I blink against the unexpected sting of tears.

He is looking at me with more than a hint of irritation. “You will call me Professor, and you will refrain from displays of sentimentality.”

Oh wonderful - and now he knows. I try to pull myself together. It’s not that bad. He doesn’t know when or how. I am not going to mess this up.

“Can you help me Professor? For some reason I am seven years from when I am supposed to be. I’m stuck here until the spell reverts and obviously this isn’t the ideal place for me to be. I need a safe house.”

He looks into the fireplace for a long time. “Very well,” he says. He conjures a fire and hands me a pot with Floo powder in. “Spinner’s End,” he says. “Do not move past the hearth rug.”

I’m momentarily stunned. It is his home after all, and I can’t imagine leaving anyone unsupervised in The Manor. Assuming I will be unsupervised. But who does Snape have to watch me? He can’t call on any of the other Death Eaters and the idea of him with a house elf is laughable. I take a pinch of Floo powder and step through to Spinner’s End. There is just enough room for me to step aside allowing Snape to step out onto the threadbare rug.

It’s a miserable place. There is a heavy smell of damp and mould, and the lingering tang of potions that seems to have seeped into the fabric of the house. At least that might keep me busy, if I have to stay here for a while.

“You will not touch any of my equipment,” he says. “There are wards that protect it, so don’t even try it.”

Of course.

“Now…” He is clearly about to launch into some sort of grand exposition, but I am starting to feel faint with hunger, never mind the thirst. The conditions put in place for experimenting with this type of travel meant that my intake was restricted.

“Professor, is there any chance of something to drink and could I make use of the bathroom?”

He gives me a long suffering sigh, but points me to the outside lavatory - I barely manage to suppress a shudder of disgust. When I return it is to the smell of roast beef with all the trimmings and warm butterbeer, presumably from the school kitchens… hopefully from the school kitchens.

I sit down to eat, while Snape wears a path in the floorboards.

“Are you quite sure it was an accident?” he asks.

I swallow down a mouthful of beef, potato and carrot - so good. “Of course it’s an accident. I had an objective for the specific time I was being sent to. Here, I have nothing. I don’t even know if I will be pulled back to my time. I’m too far back. What if I have to live through all those years again before I can go back?” My voice breaks as I voice one of my greatest fears. I can’t relive it. I barely made it through the first time round.

He says something under his breath that doesn’t sound terribly complimentary. He leans on the table, towering over me like a vulture watching its prey, his eyes boring into me. “If I were in your position, I would be considering my history as I know it. If you are here now, you were always meant to be here.”

I hold his gaze, trying not to let him intimidate me. “That’s ridiculous,” I say, dismissing his words.

He makes a noise of irritation. “You are ridiculous boy, you have no idea…” He slides into the seat opposite, still giving me that gimlet eyed stare. “Think!”

I am tempted to laugh in his face, but the memory of his vicious temper is enough to control the impulse.

“I _am_ thinking,” I say, annoyed. But of course I’m not thinking of what he wants me to be. I am thinking about miserable days imprisoned at Spinner’s End, not knowing if the spell will even pull me back from this distance in time, with nothing but occasional visits from Snape to ensure I’m not using his precious potions equipment.

Shortly afterwards he says he needs to get back to Hogwarts before he is missed.

“You may remain here as long as you wish.” He doesn’t look as though he really means that, but then he is gone with a burst of green flames.

I ward the fireplace to let me know if he is going to make a sudden reappearance.

~o~

It’s not until I am lying with nothing else to do in a bed transfigured from the sofa - there’s no way I am going to sleep in Snape’s - that I finally think about his assertion that I am here for a reason.

Trying to think logically about time travel doesn’t work. The only thing I know - because it was the one thing that was drummed into me, over and over again, when I was being prepared for this experiment - is that history cannot be altered. It has already happened… which means that when I returned to the Slytherin dormitories from the infirmary, all those years ago, that Snape already knew I would survive into my twenties at least and that he would not be around to see it.

There is one thing that stands out above all others as a moment when anything could have happened: the night that I finally got the Vanishing Cabinet to work. I couldn’t pinpoint anything that I’d done differently, and yet somehow this time it worked. Somehow, this time when the bird came back it was alive and alighted on my finger, just for a moment.

Then that Trelawney woman had tried to get in and been thrown out with the force of an explosion, it had barely registered - I had been so busy shouting my triumph, the relief too much to contain after months of fear.

And it was strange because I couldn’t remember even having set the wards in my exhaustion and terror to get this thing done at the eleventh hour, my parents’ lives and my own hanging in the balance.

The more I replay the events of that night in my mind, the more likely it seems that I had outside help.

And who else would it have been but me?

At the time it was exactly what I wanted… needed. But now, with the value of hindsight, I wish it could have been anyone but me.

I wish I had failed. I wish…

 _Fuck!_ What is the point of this? If I’m here to make sure I succeed, then it means I was/am fully aware of the choice I made and I deserved everything that has happened to me since the war ended. Not just once but twice over.

The fury hits me like Crucio - burning through my veins, threatening to turn me inside out.

“I won’t do it,” I yell, my voice deadened by spells upon spells, muffled further by every ugly piece of furniture stuffed into this ugly room.

My heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest and there are tears running down my face. I rub them away with the back of my sleeve.

“I just won’t do it,” I say again, more quietly. I don’t care about the consequences. I’ll make sure it can’t be done. Surely history will be better for it.

An unknown length of days... it was supposed to be three but I have no idea now. However with my younger self laid up in the infirmary I should have plenty of time to sneak in and destroy the cursed cabinet once and for all.

The restrictions on my wand won’t allow me to use magic, but if I’m right then the room itself will give me the means, just as it warned me that my younger self was approaching earlier with that metal bucket that fell out of nowhere.

The next morning I feel like one of the Inferi, washed out and sleep deprived, waiting for Snape to arrive and open the connection to Hogwarts. Breakfast arrives courtesy of an elf called Berry who stands staring at me with an adoring expression as I eat.

I don’t like to tell her to bugger off. She might not do as I tell her. But it finally occurs to me, when there is still no sign of Snape after another hour or so, that she could take me to the Room of Requirement.

“Can you Apparate me into the school?” I ask. “To the Room of Requirement.”

“Berry is not being able to get into the changing room.”

“The corridor outside, then, I’m sure you can do that,” I say, using my most charming smile.

She puts her arms around my legs, hugging me. “Berry is happy to be able to serve Mister Malfoy. Berry’s master will be very happy to know Mister Malfoy is doing what needs to be done.” And then she lets go and steps back her eyes widening and filling with tears.

“Your master?” I ask, my heart thumping. “You know about this - why I’m here?” I try to keep my voice calm, but she’s already losing it - tugging at her ears and banging her head against the side of the rickety bookcase.

“Stop that at once, Berry. You will not bang your head against anything or pull on your ears… or harm yourself in any way. Didn’t your master tell you that?”

“My master told me you would be here. You is a good master.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I have a raging headache coming on.

“Berry if I’m your master now, then you must tell me who your master is the rest of the time.”

She trembles, shaking her head back and forth. “You is my master now.”

“Fine!” I say, sharper than intended and she shrinks back against the bookcase. I take a deep breath. “Fine, that’s alright, if you can’t tell me. Er… you’re doing very well. I’ll be sure to tell your master how good you have been.”

“You will?” She looks at me tremulously.

Part of me does wish that I could shake the information out of her, but I just smile and nod. “Of course, you have done everything perfectly.”

She does a sort of swoon and wraps her arms around my legs again and before I can object there is a loud crack as we Disapparate. The sitting room at Spinner’s End vanishes, replaced with that bizarre, slightly sinister, tapestry of the dancing trolls.

“We is here, Mister Malfoy, sir,” Berry says, though she makes no move to let go and instead seems to snuggle even closer to me.

“Right, okay, thank you. Erm… you can let go now, Berry.”

She shivers when she lets go.

“You’d better go back to your master now. Your real master, I mean.”

“You is my master.”

“No, I mean your real master. Berry go back to your master… the one who isn’t me.”

For a moment I think she isn’t going to obey my command, but then there is another loud crack and she Disapparates from the spot, leaving me standing there alone.

It’s lucky that this corridor is so out of the way, or I’m sure we’d have had half the school running to find out what was going on.

I walk back and forth in front of the wall, until the door appears.

The axe isn’t hard to find. I catch sight of the blade glinting as I walk through the maze of broken, useless clutter to the cabinet. It is heavy, bloodstained but I push my revulsion down. The axe is broken of course, like everything else in here. If it were a Muggle axe I’m sure it would be easy to fix, but this axe was magic with a core element that made it more dangerous than any Muggle blade. I heft it and give it a couple of swings. The magic sputters, fizzes and lets off an explosion of sparks. I hope it will do what I need it to.

My steps falter as I catch sight of the cabinet. I lower my chin, hefting the axe up high. The thought of Potter walking to his death in the Forbidden Forest looms large in my mind. Well, he doesn’t get to be the only brave one. Not in this life.

The axe blade slams into the wood of the cabinet and the magic explodes, filling my body with what feels like the fire of a thousand curses. I’m screaming, trying to let go of the axe handle. Someone shouts my name and then I’m yanked back, pulled against a firm body, held steady by a pair of strong arms.

I’m still shuddering with the shock of magical overload. I look at the cabinet. It appears untouched. The axe is lying on the floor, gleaming. I give a last shudder and turn to face my saviour.

And wouldn’t you know it - Potter is glaring at me as if I’ve just snapped his wand.

“You bloody stupid git.” He sounds more upset than anything, though, and surprisingly he smooths a hand over my hair.

I haven’t seen him up close for a very long time, and I know all the magazines enhance pictures but it’s still surprising to see the amount of silver strands in his hair, the dark shadow of stubble and the lines that crease his forehead.

I’m sure I must be gaping like a fish.

 _We are not carp_ father’s voice supplies and I shut my mouth, my teeth slamming together.

“What are you doing here? Spying on me again, Potter?” I look away disgusted.

“No. No, you… I’m sorry, I knew I should have… _shit_.” He puts his hands on either side of my head, forcing me to look at him.

I want to spit in his stupid face. “Nothing ever changes does it? You followed me then, you’re following me now.” He flushes, glaring at me, caught out, and now I have the bit between my teeth. “Well, I am going to change things, Potter, I’m doing what should have been done years ago - I’m going to make sure that I don’t survive this war.”

“No,” he says, soft and broken. “You can’t change history.”

I pull out of his grasp, shoving him with both hands against his chest, but he grabs hold of my wrists hard enough to hurt. I struggle but he only grips tighter. I wonder if he would actually break my wrists.

“Get the fuck off me, Potter,” I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice and failing horribly, it’s getting hard to breathe and I can’t hear what he’s saying over the roar of blood in my ears.

Even throwing my full weight against him, he barely moves. It’s like trying to move a mountain: impossible, futile.

And then he kisses me.

For some reason he doesn’t look overly disturbed by that, but he loosens his grip though he doesn’t let go completely.

“Send me back, right _now_. Lock me up, if you want, I don’t care,” I say. A small voice whispers that I do care, very much, but it’s so small, easy to drown out - I’ve been crushing it for years.

He drops his head, looking tired. “I couldn’t keep you here if I tried,” he says.

~o~

I don’t know how he does it. One minute I am standing there with him, the next I am back in the laboratory, strapped to a bed covered by a flickering magical field, with several people standing around watching me.

“Get these things off me,” I yell, tugging against the wrist bindings, chafing the tender skin underneath until it stings and my arms ache. “Let me up, you bastards, let me up. What are you doing to me?”

The field around me flickers and dies. Three people rush forward at once. One of them is Granger, her hair falling out of the chignon she’s tried to force it into.

“What happened, Draco? What did you see?” There is a Quick Quotes Quill hovering over her right shoulder, waiting for me to speak. Oh, I’ll speak alright.

“Get these fucking handcuffs off me or I’ll call my lawyer.” Not that I actually have a lawyer or the money to hire one, it’s nothing but an empty threat spilling from my lips.

Granger pales, but her mouth tightens into a thin line. “You agreed to this, you wanted to help.”

“Not that I had much of a choice,” I say bitterly. “But I agreed to a trial run, I did not agree to be thrown back into the worst fucking year of my life.”

“What?”

I tug at my restraints again and Granger gives her two assistants a minute nod. Each of them casts Finite, releasing the magical cuffs, but keep their wands trained on me should I try anything.

“Sixth year, Hogwarts, ringing any bells?”

“What were you doing there?” She gives me a disbelieving look, then glances at the parchment hovering close, as if to check what I’ve just said. “That’s impossible. You were supposed to be…”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ tell me I wasn’t supposed to be there.” I struggle up into a sitting position. “Get your guard dogs off me,” I say, as two wands almost poke out my eyes in their haste to make sure I’m not going to do Merlin only knows what, since even that simple movement has left me feeling shaky and giddy.

They move back and Granger comes forward, perching her backside on the edge of the bed. She presses her hand to my forehead and it’s so like Mother’s touch, her soft cool palm touching my sweaty face. The memory brings back the scent of her.

“You wear the same perfume as my mother,” I say.

Granger’s mouth opens slightly, she looks like she doesn’t know what to say, but of course she wouldn’t be Granger if she wasn’t ever so smart.

“There seems no physical damage. Obviously you’ll have to see Doctor Lovegood for your psychological assessment.”

I snort in disbelief. “You really expect me to talk to that nitwit after what you’ve put me through?”

Granger presses her lips into a thin line. “She’s very good at her job. And she’s my friend and you shouldn’t talk about her like that… or I’ll have to hit you again.” She gives me a little smile to show she’s joking. I don’t know why she’s behaving as though we’re _friends_ or something, and it doesn’t change anything.

“Where is Potter?” I ask.

Granger looks at me with renewed interest. “At work, I expect.”

“You expect? Don’t you know? I thought you would have a pretty good idea since he’s in charge of this ridiculous trial.”

“No, _I’m_ in charge of the trial,” she says, giving me a filthy look.

“Then what was Potter doing there with me?” I ask.

“ _Harry_ Potter?” she asks, as though there’s any other Potter I would be talking about.

“No, Raging-Hero-Complex Potter. Oh wait, that _is_ Harry Potter.”

She checks the notes again and seems to think about it for a few moments. “What did he say to you?”

She really doesn’t know, then. What he was doing there. The memory of the kiss makes me blush. “He was spying on me under that cloak of his again.”

“Did you actually see him?” she asks.

“Of course I did. He didn’t stay under there the whole time.” I fold my arms across my chest. “He seemed to know an awful lot about the trial for someone not involved.”

“Well, I can assure you he isn’t.”

“So I’m lying then, am I?” And then it occurs to me. “I’m insane aren’t I? Your meddling has driven me insane.”

It has the desired effect. Granger looks uncertain and grabs the quill and parchment out of the air. “No of course not.” Then as an afterthought: “Doctor Lovegood will be in to see you shortly.”

~o~

Lovegood may be good at her job, but she’s very odd. When she looks at me I feel like she is using Legilimens, though I know she can’t be - ethics rather than ability.

“You should drink some pumpkin juice, it will help with the disorientation and your mood. I imagine you’re slightly dehydrated.”

I raise my eyebrow at her. “And whose fault is that?”

She ignores the question. “Would you like me to pour you some?”

“I can do it perfectly well by myself. I’m not an invalid.” I pour a large glass and gulp it down in a few long swallows. It’s wonderful, but also terrible, it makes me feel nauseated.

“You’ll be alright in a moment, let it pass.”

I lean back against the mound of pillows I demanded as soon as I had my wits about me, and stare back at her. She smiles softly, unperturbed and pulls a very long fluffy feather quill and several pieces of parchment from her bag.

“Tell me what happened when you went back,” she says.

I tell her everything, except the part about Potter kissing me. If I am mad then it’s in my head and she doesn’t need to know. If it really happened then it’s none of her business.

She hums when I get to the bit about arriving back in the present, and her eyes feel like they’re boring straight into me. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least.

_Do you want her to see you’re nervous? Sit up straight, stop fidgeting. No, don’t hold eye contact for too long, that’s a giveaway._

I wish my father would fuck off out of my head. Why am I even listening to him? Except it’s not him, it’s me…

She jots down a few more things and I hope to Salazar that she really can’t use Legilimens or that I haven’t given too much away with my posture or something equally inane.

“And how do you feel now?” she asks.

“Physically? Fine. I don’t feel any different than normal.”

“Mentally?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one to tell me whether or not I’m off my head?”

She brushes the fluffy quill against her cheek thoughtfully. “Why did you assume that Harry was in charge? He didn’t claim to be.”

I roll my eyes. “I don’t know. Because he was there, because he arrived there right on time, because he stopped me.”

“Did he?” How she manages to make a direct challenge sound so innocuous, I don’t know, but I can tell she doesn’t believe my version of events. “Hermione takes confidentiality very seriously,” she continues.

“Well, excuse me if I remain sceptical about that.”

For some reason she beams a smile at me then. “You seem yourself,” she says, putting her quill and parchment away. “I’m happy to have you discharged. But should anything change, you must let one of us know right away.”

She places a card onto the table in front of me. “You can call me whenever you want, day or night.”

I pick up the card and look at it. “You know, I thought you were more interested in those weird creatures you were going on about - the ones no-one else believes in.”

She smiles again and gets a faraway look in her eyes. “Oh I still am. There is masses of work to be done in the field of magizoology, but that’s not for another few years yet.”

“You have it all planned out?”

She smiles an enigmatic smile and completely ignores my question. “You mustn’t worry,” she says, “You’re just as sane as I am.”

That’s not a comforting thought.

~o~

I get dressed. Trying to make sense of time travel and how anyone would notice if I had managed to change the past is impossible. Trust Granger to think she knows better.

I need to find Potter. Of course Granger will have got to him first, but at least she doesn’t know everything.

He is where he always is - when he’s not giving a speech or opening something or being interviewed - in his office. Well, I suppose he goes home as well, but nobody seems to know where that is.

His secretary stops me, but surprisingly Potter gives the all clear to let me straight in.

He stands up, coming round the desk to shake my hand. Well, that makes a change. “Draco,” is it just me or does he sound sort of breathless? “Have a seat. Do you want some tea or something?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no, but I’m just remembering that I’m not exactly well placed to be turning down freebies outside of the magical labs.

“Tea,” I say, going over to the picture window. It’s enchanted, of course, seeing as we’re four stories below street level. The view is of what appears to be a rainforest. Only the top Ministry officials get the ones that allow the user to choose their own scene. Everyone else makes do with the bog standard view of the Thames, though they mirror the weather above ground, at least. The lowest of the low, like me, don’t get our own offices let alone a window. But of course, I shouldn’t complain.

Potter’s secretary comes in with a tray of tea and pumpkin juice, and biscuits. Nice ones with chocolate on. Thick chocolate. I take three and sit on the sofa, forcing Potter to come out from behind his desk again. He’s self assured enough not to hover over which seat to choose, he takes the well worn single armchair that looks utterly out of place with the rest of the furniture.

“I suppose you’ve had a visit from Granger already,” I say.

He looks confused. “Hermione always visits me,” he says. “We have lunch together, and Ron.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to pretend with me, I was there, remember?”

“Is this something to do with why she was acting so strangely? She wanted to know if I’d been messing around with her study thing. I don’t even know what she’s studying. She mentioned your name, looked at me for about a minute and then changed the subject completely.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “And this is unusual behaviour?”

He tries to hold it back, but I can see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips until he gives in and laughs. There’s something different about him… I suppose it’s that we have never really spoken - even after the trials, when he spoke up on my behalf and my mother’s. I was… grateful doesn’t cover it. Perhaps it should have bridged the icy chasm we’d opened up over the years, but I never wanted to be pitied by him of all people.

“So, what was it about, then?” he asks, sipping his tea. “Hermione was even more cryptic than she usually is. Like she’s working something out.”

“I thought you were involved with her study,” I say, eyeing him carefully over the rim of my cup. “Because you turned up in the course of it.” He looks utterly baffled, and I know what it is that’s different about him. “You really don’t know anything about it, do you?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Potter goes ahead and answers anyway.

“No. What… I mean… if I was there… god, this is stupid. If someone’s pretending to be me then I think I have a right to know about it,” he says angrily. The enchanted window rattles in its frame. All that power.

“I don’t think it’s that.” This isn’t the Harry who came to me in the Room of Requirement, that one had silver in his hair. The Harry sitting before me is much younger. His face is unlined and his hair is still jet black. He’s also clean shaved and he smells of warm spices.

“Um, Malfoy?”

I’m staring at him and realise with a jolt that I want to kiss him. Rather desperately. I jerk back into my seat, but my lips are tingling as if I hadn’t just imagined it.

“You’ll find out I suspect,” I say. “I have to go.”

“Wait!” He grabs me by my wrist.

“This isn’t the end of it,” I say. I think it’s the beginning. Merlin I hope it is. I don’t think I could go through the rest of my life knowing what his lips taste like and not _trying_ to taste them again. At every possible opportunity.

I don’t know how he’s done this to me with just a kiss.

I tug my arm out of his grasp and he lets me go quite easily, looking concerned. “Sorry,” he says, backing off. “I didn’t mean to but...”

“It’s fine, I have to go.”

His voice calls “Malfoy!” after me as I leave.

~o~

Who would have thought I’d ever seek out the company of Luna Lovegood in my free time?

She waves off my offer to pay for a round and gets herself a butterbeer. “You didn’t ask me here on a date, did you? You’re very sweet, only I’m already seeing Neville Longbottom.”

“No! I mean… sweet?! I am _not_ sweet.” I give her a filthy look, but she carries on oblivious.

“Don’t worry, I know Neville seems scary sometimes, but he’s very much like a Snuffalump, soft and cuddly underneath.”

I really don’t want to know what Longbottom is like in any respect.

“I’m not scared of him, but I am not asking you out. I went to see Potter today.”

“Oh, how lovely, how was Harry?”

“Confused. And… look I want to tell you something, but I don’t want you to tell Granger, er, Hermione.”

She looks delighted, so I press on before she can jump to any more conclusions.

“It wasn’t him: the Potter that I saw when I went back was much older.”

Her eyelids flutter and her cheeks are very pink. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, he was going grey and had more lines on his face. I thought at the time it was odd, but I put it down to the pressure of the job and, you know, being the Chosen One and all that rubbish. But when I went to see him this afternoon he looked-”

“Attractive,” Luna says.

“I was going to say younger.” Though it hadn’t exactly escaped my notice… no, there is no way I am even going to think about it.

Luna smiles as if she can read my mind.

“I want to go back,” I say, looking down at my drink. “I need to know why he was there.”

“Probably because you asked him to be,” Luna replies as if it’s a simple deduction. I choke on my drink. “Not now, of course, some time in the future. Maybe years from now,” she adds, musing, twisting her fingers through her hair and pulling out what looks like a colourful mushroom, twirling it between her fingers before putting it back in a different place. “Isn’t it romantic? He travelled through time for you.”

“Wait… hang on. I don’t know what you’re thinking about, or whom, but it isn’t Potter and it certainly isn’t me.”

“Harry’s always been unusually determined when it comes to you, Draco. Hermione mentioned that he became quite obsessed in the sixth year. She wasn’t surprised that you ended up back there, you know - desire, force of will, she hasn’t quite worked it out yet.”

“Salazar’s teeth, please, don’t tell her about this conversation. It’s off the record. Just two friends having a drink together and shooting the breeze.”

“I never did understand that expression. Why would anyone want to shoot the breeze? And it sounds quite a violent pastime for friends.”

I am baffled as ever at her mad musings. At least it doesn’t induce a bout of hysteria that would have once been the response. “But are you going to tell Granger… Hermione?”

“About you and Harry?”

I can feel the sweat prickling under my armpits at the way that sounds coming from her. Like we’re a couple. “I suppose so.”

“Are you in love with him?” she asks.

I open my mouth, but my voice fails me. I clear my throat and try again. “No, absolutely not, and if you tell her or Potter or _anyone_ that I’ll make your life a living hell. Don’t think that just because I’m no longer in favour that I can’t.”

She shoves me in the arm as if taking what I’ve said for a joke. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” She taps her nose and giggles.

I really don’t have time for this. I ignore the sudden heat in my face and try to focus on what is important. “But will you speak to her about sending me back again?”

“I don’t think so, it’s quite dangerous you know.”

I take a deep breath.

“I know, I signed up for it, but I need to go back and see why Potter was following me and what he wants.” And I don’t say the real thing that’s been on my mind since I realised that the Potter who turned up in the Room of Requirement was from the future: I want to know what’s going to happen to me.

Luna smiles and pats my arm. “Don’t worry, it’ll all become clear in time.”

~o~

I open my eyes.

There must be some mistake - why am I in a bathroom? Inside a stall, in a bathroom, with the door open.

Someone is crying.

It is a bathroom. _The_ bathroom - and I know who is crying. Except it can’t be. I must have overdone it at the pub.

No, I know I didn’t.

It must be a dream, then - one I haven’t had for a long time. With the attention to detail of a Pensieve memory.

I can hear that younger version of myself trying to talk through near hysteria while Moaning Myrtle tries to comfort him.

Why this? I loathe this memory with all my heart, but I can’t help wanting to see. The stall door is open, but he’s at the furthest sink, just out of sight.

I edge forward and nearly leap out of my skin as a hand catches hold of mine and yanks me back in. An arm is wrapped around my waist, holding me there.

“You’ll be seen,” says a low, rough voice in my ear.

I open my mouth to speak, to ask: how could he possibly know that, but Potter quiets me with a hand over my mouth. I struggle, glaring in the hopes that he’ll be able to tell even if he can’t see. How dare he? But he drapes something over us. His invisibility cloak.

Everything goes deathly silent for a moment. I can feel the heat of Potter’s breath against my cheek and the press of his body. I swear I can feel his heart beating against my back. If I could get it up - in spite of being more terrified than I’ve been since the Dark Lord set up residence in my home - then I am sure this moment would take on a tinge of excitement.

I know what’s coming, but the first bang of a curse hitting the wall takes me by surprise and I jerk back against the solid rock of Potter’s body.

It seems to go on forever, curses and hexes flying, nothing hitting its target, until I hear my ever more frantic voice cry _Cruci…_ cut off by Potter’s _Sectumsempra_ \- how could he not have known? I want to ask, but things are moving too fast. I can see water stained red with blood, _my_ blood, flowing across the floor. Moaning Myrtle screams murder and Potter is crying - I don’t remember that - when Snape billows in.

Time slows down. Snape’s voice is almost soothing, hypnotic. The Potter holding on to me seems intent on squeezing the life out of me with a violent hug. I shove ineffectually at his arms and he seems to come back to himself, letting me go, so I can at least breathe again.

Snape leads my younger self out, ordering Potter to wait for his return.

Eternity passes and Snape returns, whisking Potter away with him. I can just imagine how that will go… or how it went?

The Potter standing behind me sags against me. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m so sorry, Draco. I never meant-”

“Get off.” I shrug him off easily, but he’s not trying to keep me there any more. “What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know. You never said.”

His statement doesn’t make any sense, but I can’t focus on that right now. I want to scream at him.

But I don’t get the chance as Hero-Complex Potter strides forward, grabs my arm and Disapparates us out of the bathroom.

We land in a filthy hovel of a house - all low beamed ceilings and rotting furniture. I hadn’t thought it possible that there was a place even more revolting than Snape’s abode, but apparently I was wrong.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Home,” he says, simply.

I wrinkle my nose up. There is a dreadful, musty, dead animal smell. “Lovely. Is this the actual cupboard?”

He rolls his eyes. “What sort of cupboards did you have at the Manor? No, we’re not there. I wouldn’t ever call that home. This is… it’s where… I live here now.”

“I take it you don’t have an elf.” I go over to the windows and peer out into the darkness beyond. The moon is high and waxing, throwing enough light over the scene to show a small wizarding village. I know of it, of course, Godric’s Hollow is famous now, or in the future I suppose. “What are we doing here? Are you abducting me?”

He huffs out a breath. “Malfoy, do you always have to be such an obnoxious prick?” And then he laughs, “’Course you do.”

I throw him my best Malfoy patented haughty look, but he’s conjuring warmth and food and drink, which I’m more than happy to partake of.

“Staying at Hogwarts is not a good idea, there are already two of you there.” He looks intently at me, letting the absurdity of it sink in. “Besides the house elves would have arrived to clean up by now.”

“How did I get here? Did you bring me?”

He gives me a funny look. “How would I do that?”

“How should I know? I didn’t do this.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, he looks down at the small feast on the table. “Things aren’t always that black and white. You didn’t _do_ this, but it’s because you feel something that we’re both here.”

“What’s it like hanging out with good old Professor Dumbledore in the afterlife?” I ask, irritated at his cryptic words, even if I understand why he can’t speak plainly.

“I meant it, Draco,” he says quietly. “When I said I was sorry. I never actually told you that I was sorry, before, did I?”

I flop down into one of the chairs he’s cleared off, exhausted.

“I was going to cast Crucio, you just got there first.” I’m shocked at my own magnanimity. I was ready to rail at him a little while ago - I still have the scars, after all, I’m still angry with him… aren’t I?

“You need to be careful,” he says, sitting down opposite me. He looks even more tired than I feel.

“What? Why?”

“Take an educated guess,” he says, tucking into his pie and mash.

“Time travel?”

“That’s part of it, yes.”

I knew the risks when I signed up. There was a list as long as my arm, but this...

“ _Do_ you have a house elf?” I ask. He grins at me. Oh, well, that makes sense then. “So, hang on, I’m confused - what are you doing here? I went to see you when I got back and you didn’t know anything about it.”

He swallows another mouthful and washes it down with a drink. “I know,” he says. “That was the first I realised that Hermione was messing around with time travel again.”

“Again?”

He just gives me an enigmatic smile.

“So what happens now?” I ask.

He gives a shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve actually done this much, you know and you…” he gives me a shifty look. “You probably know more than I do.”

I laugh, bitterly. “So it’s true you’re here because I told you to be?”

He raises both eyebrows. “Says who?”

I clear my throat, not wanting to bring Lovegood’s name into it. He can’t do Legilimens can he? I’m pretty sure those biographies all said that he was rubbish at it. Not that I did more than glance at them in Flourish and Blotts. I shield myself just in case.

“Look, Potter, since you don’t know that information, obviously I’m not meant to tell you now, since you’re from my future. I am still around where you come from aren’t I? No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

He is rubbing his hand across his jaw and I can hear the scrape of stubble catching on his skin. I don’t _know_ why this seems suddenly more important to me than anything else.

“Why did you kiss me?”

He laughs. “Oh God, I wondered when you were going to get to that. It was a spur of the moment thing. A mistake.”

“It didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like… like…” I force myself to think back to the one thing I’ve repressed every time I’ve thought back. “It felt like you were used to treating me like that.”

For some reason he looks offended. “Like what?”

“Are we…?” I can’t finish the question. He can’t answer. Well, I assume he can’t. Who knows? None of the rules ever seem to apply to the Boy Wonder. For all I know he’s learnt to travel without the aid of anything other than his own superhuman powers.

“We are,” he says in a low voice, as though he’s trying to keep anyone else from overhearing.

The stupid thing is I don’t know whether to believe him or not. I know that the rules of time travel are there to safeguard against the consequences of altering the course of history. But there’s nothing actually stopping either of us from going out there and running amok. There would be no way of knowing if someone did that, from the perspective of the future.

I look at Potter sitting there. He must have thought about it.

“Why don’t you go and change things?” I ask.

He sits back, lifting his cup to his lips and regarding me over the rim. “I thought about it,” he says, which is more honesty than I thought I would get. “I don’t want to.”

“What?! What the fuck is the matter with you?” I am livid, glaring at him. “You’re a coward. The great Harry Potter and he’s afraid to change a little bit of the past to save…”

“Stop it! You don’t know what you’re asking me, and you wouldn’t if you knew.” He is flushed and seems to be making a tremendous effort to control himself. At least the windows aren’t rattling this time.

So, what are the implications if Potter tries to change history? Surely he has already by telling me that at some point in the future we are going to start… what? Fucking each other? Living together? Is this going to be where we live in the future? Is that what he meant by home? His or ours?

A million questions and he could tell me everything I want to know, I wonder if he would if I coaxed him.

On reflection, better not.

He gives me a wry smile. “I’ll see you around,” he says.

And just like that I’m back standing outside my own front door.

I look down at my hand, outstretched, wand poised to take down the wards.

“What the buggering fuck?” There’s a startled noise from someone passing by. I quickly remove the wards and let myself in.

I can’t stand Floo calling - I’ve had enough of kneeling before anyone - but this warrants it.

“Doctor Lovegood,” I call. As it’s out of hours I’m kept waiting while the network tries to locate her. It may be only moments, but my knees start complaining almost immediately, in spite of the cushioning charm.

“Hello, Draco.” There’s no warning before I’m confronted with Luna and Longbottom, obviously in the middle of something. I try not to notice anything other than Luna’s face.

“Er, sorry, bad time. I’ll call back in the morning.”

“It’s alright.” She catches my glance over to Neville’s semi-naked reclining form - are those vines? - and gives a dreamy little flick of her wand, obscuring him from view. “Go ahead, has something happened? You look a little strange.”

I nearly choke on the irony of that. “Yeah, well, I think so. Either I’m going mad or I spontaneously travelled back in time again.”

“Where were you when it happened?” she asks, looking interested, kneeling down on the hearth and tucking the shimmering material she’s wearing around her.

“I’m not sure. I left the pub and went to Apparate home, but I don’t remember actually Apparating. Just one moment I was in an alleyway, the next I was in the fourth floor boys toilets at Hogwarts. Sixth year, again.”

“Was Harry there again?”

I can feel myself blushing, and I’m glad of the flickering glow of the Floo connection. “Yes, he was there. He took me to a place he called home and answered some questions.”

“I’ll need to know what you talked about, do you think you can remember it or would you like to use the Pensieve?”

There is no way I will ever use a Pensieve, and I should sooner suffer another Sectumsempra hex as watch Lovegood, or worse still Granger, wading around in one of my memories. “I’ll write it all down,” I say.

“You do that.” She glances over her shoulder. “I should go,” she says.

I nod and close the Floo connection before I can catch another glimpse of whatever is going on.

I write the whole conversation out and then duplicate it without the incriminating and embarrassing bits.

It’s past two in the morning by the time I finish and I can’t stop yawning. Despite this my thoughts are still intent on Potter - on those seeds that he has been sowing - and why would he lie to me about us being involved?

Finally, I can’t put off the one thought that makes my blood run cold: what if it’s all in my head? It’s far more likely than any other scenario I can think of. I mean, sudden spontaneous time travel? The more I think about what happened, the more likely it seems that I just had some sort of hallucination. A very vivid one, but still…

~o~

“He was holding on to you? You could feel him?” Granger looks like she has with every other question - like a scientist studying a lab rat, interested but not emotionally invested. Ironic considering all she’s done for interspecies relations. But perhaps I am lower than a lab rat in her eyes.

“Yes.” I don’t expand on that, I don’t want to remind her that it’s a good job or I might have given the game away.

There are diagnostic checks being run while she fires her questions at me - everything from my meetings with Potter and Lovegood, to the very last thing I remember before the bathroom - but now she seems to be thinking.

“Can you tell me why you persist in thinking that Harry is the one behind this?” she asks, nicely enough but the question has teeth.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to step on your feminist ideals,” I say, rising to it. “I just… I don’t know. Why does he keep showing up? And you don’t know about the second trip do you?”

“For the last time, Malfoy, this study is my own work, based on _my_ knowledge of time turner magic.” She is rather marvellous when she’s angry, I can see why Weasley likes her.

“What do _you_ know about time turners?” I scoff. “They were all destroyed by that oaf of a boyfriend of yours.”

“Fiancé. And it wasn’t his fault… I mean, that’s not the point.” I try to suppress a smirk at managing to get her flustered. But the smirk is wiped off my face with her next words. “I was given a time turner in third year to manage all my classes, Ministry sanctioned. I based my work on the understanding of time travel and time magic that I experienced.”

I feel my eyebrows shoot up. That is unexpected. “There was never anything-”

“Of course not.” She seems put out by that. I never took her for being fame hungry, despite her inability to stay out of The Prophet.

“I didn’t mean to undermine your work, but you have to give me this: if he’s not involved in any way, why was Potter there both times? And you didn’t know about the second time. It wasn’t part of your pr… it was something else. I think you should be concentrating on what caused this second trip - I mean, aren’t you slightly concerned?”

She shakes her head impatiently and looks like she’d dearly love to hex me, but a nurse is hovering, looking anxious. Granger swishes her wand and my ears are filled with a humming sound. It lasts no more than a few seconds and then it’s gone again. I give Granger a narrow-eyed look.

“I have a right to know what’s happening to me.”

I understand her reluctance to admit that something has gone wrong – maybe an unexpected side-effect or even sabotage. From what I remember of time turners they were only permitted for short trips back in time, a few hours at most. The likelihood of anyone remembering exactly where they were at any given point in a longer time span, and the amount that could go wrong, considering they were only able to send a person backwards not forwards in time was too great. Besides, who would want to be stuck reliving even the best years of their life if they had to be just casual observers?

She gives me what I recognise as her no-nonsense stare, chin jutting forward. “Was there anything you didn’t tell us about the trial trip?”

I can tell, just from the look on her face, that she knows there is. A hot flush of embarrassment races through me.

I fold my arms across my chest and glare back at her. “What, you mean in the way there were things you didn’t tell me?” But I can’t stop the furious blush as I think of Potter kissing me and how I must have looked.

“I told you everything I could, Draco, considering it was the first human trial. But this… you tried to destroy the cabinet. You tried to change the future. And it wasn’t just about your own destiny, it could have changed everything.”

My stomach lurches. I’d almost forgotten. How…? How ridiculous.

“Well, it didn’t work did it? Obviously. I’m still here, the cabinet worked, everyone remembers that when I was a boy I let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and tried to kill Dumbledore.”

Her expression softens. “But if you had succeeded then you could have altered the outcome of the war altogether.”

I can’t believe that. Something that Snape said resounds in my head. “I was always supposed to be there.”

“What?”

“Do you remember what Snape said? If I was there now, then I was always supposed to be there. That I should look at my past… something like that.”

Her gaze is steady, patient, waiting for me to get to the point.

“I looked at the cabinet afterwards - it seemed untouched.”

She looks momentarily startled. “You’re saying…”

“I think I might have inadvertently fixed it.” A chill runs down my spine.

“That’s…” Granger seems lost for words, for once in her life. “You can’t be sure of that. I’ll have to think about this.”

“Yes, you do that. And perhaps you could put some thought into how to stop me travelling back again.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind the inconvenience that much, considering what’s going on between you and Harry.” Her words are so casually delivered that I don’t feel the barb until it has sunk in.

“That is none of your business,” I say, my voice dripping with venom.

“I’m sorry, Draco, but anything that happens to you when you travel back is very much my business.”

“Stay out of my head, Granger, or I’ll leave the trial.”

“And leave yourself open to this, whatever it is that’s happening.”

I force myself to shrug. “You said yourself - the benefits make up for the inconvenience.”

~o~

I hate to admit that I’m scared, but I am terrified that I’ll travel back again. But each time my thoughts settle on Potter and what he’s really doing there. I keep coming back to Lovegood’s assertion that he was there for me.

In the present, I keep an eye out for him as I try to resume my life. Once I start looking it’s impossible to stop. And, for whatever reason, he’s looking back at me. I walk through the corridors of the Ministry and suddenly I’ll know that he’s going be around the next corner. And there he is, as large as life and just as irritating as ever. A pain in the arse if I were ever to let him get that close (oh, I will, I know that well enough). Founders save me, I’m sinking fast.

Truth be told I would have made a move before now, if it wasn’t for the irrational fear that any contact will result in my being thrown back in time. Granger still has no idea why the second trip happened and I choose to believe it was because of Potter, despite having returned from his office without incident. Obviously a delayed reaction.

Somewhere around the second week I lose my fear and start trying to find Potter, exchanging pleasantries whenever we meet. By the beginning of the third week, I’m bored: I haven’t travelled again, I’m starting to believe it was just a freak accident. Whenever I see Potter our looks linger. I’m beginning to feel an almost… Gryffindor spirit about the whole thing. Certainly no self-respecting Slytherin would call out across an almost deserted atrium at seeing the object of their obsession.

“Potter!” I shout, speeding up to catch him before he steps into the lift.

He turns and I’m forcibly struck by how young he still looks and, yes, how attractive despite the stunned expression.

“Hello,” I say, slowing down and feeling suddenly self-conscious, not knowing what to say and remembering just what it’s like to be rejected by him. Why didn’t I plan this out? Too late now. I give him an appraising look that makes him blush, which is more like it. “Care to join me for a drink?”

He looks at me like I’ve spoken in tongues and he doesn’t understand. I have to stifle a laugh at the thought, since he’s the one who can speak in tongues. At least, he used to be able to. I wonder if he still can. The books claim that he hasn’t been able to speak it since the end of the war. I am not entirely convinced of the vehemence of the denial.

“Erm, I’m supposed to…” He lifts his arm a fraction, under which nestles a thin folder. “I have to drop this off with Auror Robards.”

“I’ll keep you company,” I say, not about to take no for an answer. He fancies me, I know he does. I’m not exactly putting myself out on a limb here.

He smiles. “Alright, I’ll bite, but if this is a setup…”

“What?” I ask.

He raises his shoulders and then drops them again. “Never mind,” he says.

Robards has already left for the day, which is typical. His partner, a redhead I would suspect of being a Weasley, except for the designer suit, is finishing up some paperwork. Small and fierce, even when in repose, she reminds me, and no doubt Potter, of the Weaslette. I say nothing, there’s no point in bringing up bad memories of his recent break up. Not that there seems to be any bad blood between them, not according to the papers, at least. The Prophet tried to report on Potter’s broken heart and the heartless wench who broke it, but the very next day they were photographed sitting together at the Harpies tryouts.

Any suggestion that they were still together was quickly nipped in the bud when she and her new girlfriend, Daphne Greengrass, stepped out together in public for the first time a week later.

Not that I followed this with any interest, but it was impossible to ignore. Front page news. Potter always is.

He drops off the folder, exchanging a few words with the Auror, who turns out not to be a Weasley, but Verity Lowood.

Back out in the hallway he seems suddenly awkward. He swallows and I wonder if I make him nervous. It hadn’t really occurred to me that it was possible to discomfit the saviour of the wizarding world. This isn’t the Potter I know… sort of.

“So, where do you drink, Potter?” I ask, when the nervous silence becomes too much to bear.

“I, er, The Leaky,” he says.

I roll my eyes. Surely he can do better than that dive. “Why don’t I introduce you to Jasper Sphinx?”

He blinks several times. “Who’s that?”

Good grief. “It’s a place that specialises in Firewhiskey.”

“Oh,” he says, as if that’s about as clear as mud. “Okay then. Yeah, sounds good.”

I give him the once over. “You might want to change.”

He wrinkles his nose. “I’m not really keen on places that have dress codes and that sort of thing.”

“No dress code, but I’m not going out with you dressed like that - you’ve got something down your shirt and you smell of cafeteria food.”

Potter looks down at his shirt, inspecting the stain. “It’s only tea, I can get that out.”

I sigh heavily. Maybe the Harry I met really was much older. He seemed better dressed that the Harry standing before me. “Please, for me, just go home and get changed.”

He looks startled at that. “Why does it matter to you what I wear?”

“Because you are one of the wealthiest men in the world and there is no excuse for appearing slovenly.”

“Right. What about you, are you going to change?” He glances down at my robes and quickly looks away.

“I think not,” I say, as if I have a choice in the matter.

Potter’s home is the Blacks’ townhouse. All this could be mine, I think grimly, looking around. Great Aunt Walburga’s portrait starts telling me how wonderful I am and I yank the curtains shut with horror.

Potter looks amused. “That’s a first,” he says. “She usually screams and curses about blood traitors and filthy Muggle scum.”

I don’t know what’s so funny, so I scowl at him.

“Kreacher,” he calls. I think he’s talking to me for a moment and open my mouth to object, but then there is a loud pop and an ancient looking house elf appears. He doesn’t look too happy. “Look after Draco, give him some tea or whatever he wants.”

The old elf looks at me as though all his Christmases have come at once, bowing deeply and saying, “Kreacher is proud to serve a true Master of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.” His brand of favour is very different to Berry’s quivering devotion, and his dislike of Potter is almost comical.

Potter is still dressed in Muggle clothes when he returns, a simple shirt and jeans they may be but I’m loathe to admit just how well they suit him. I’m not sure when he attained this new physique - broad shoulders, narrow waist, delectable arse - but I must admit I am delighted when he gives me a self-conscious little turn, arms outstretched. I lick my lips and rise to greet him in more than one way.

“There, you see, you can appear presentable when you try.” I’m not sure if he can tell I’m trying not to drool, but my gaze keeps wandering down whenever he’s not looking.

“Are we Apparating?” he asks, touching my arm.

The idea of Apparition makes me anxious and I shake my head. “We can take the Floo.” It might be my imagination, but I am sure I detect a flicker of regret in his expression as he lets go of me again.

Jasper Sphinx is a glorious little place overlooking Loch Cairn, neither of which can be seen by Muggles. It’s very upmarket, way out of my budget, fortunately the owners are old friends of mine.

“Pansy, darling, how’s business?” I ask, stepping out of the fireplace and brushing myself off.

“Couldn’t be better, sweetie,” she says, coming over to kiss my cheek and rubbing the resulting lipstick smear away with her thumb. “We’ve got a hen party in later. You’re just in time to sample the new stock. Go through, Blaise is in the back. Oh, what the fuck is he doing here?”

Pansy’s eyes flash with anger and I glance back to see Potter stepping out of the fire. I still Pansy with a hand on her arm. “I invited him here.”

She manages to look disgusted and mortally wounded at once.

“Be nice,” I say, sighing with relief when her features smooth into a professional looking smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Harry Potter, what an honour,” she says. I can hear the irony in her tone, but Potter, to his credit, takes her words at face value, and is polite and charming as at any of his many functions.

“Hi, I’ve heard really good things,” he says, lying through his teeth as he shakes her hand. I must admit, I am quite enjoying myself up until Pansy takes it too far and her eyes take on an all too familiar determined gleam.

I grab Potter’s arm. “No need to overdo it, Potter,” I say, tugging him along. He comes away easily.

Blaise is seated at one end of a long teak bar in the back room. It’s ostensibly the stock room, but has oft been used to host parties. How they ever make any money is a mystery until one looks at the price of a single measure of their most exclusive Firewhiskies - distilled with dragon tears and with the kick of dragon’s breath to fortify it - and it becomes a little clearer.

Blaise takes a sip from a cut glass tumbler, sucking the liquid between his teeth and letting it flood over his tastebuds. He observes us as we enter and take seats opposite him. He’s a cool bastard, I’ll give him that. Smooth in the way that I never quite managed - too hung up on being daddy’s best boy. He never felt the need to appeal to anyone and so appealed to everyone. It’s not difficult to see why he had a starring role in a good number of my wank fantasies over the years.

“You need to try this one,” Blaise says, as if it’s a regular occurrence for me to bring Harry Golden God Potter to his establishment any night of the week. I would kiss him, but it would defeat the purpose of this – I’m not entirely sure of the purpose - but getting into Blaise’s thoroughly heterosexual pants is not any part of it. Unless… I look at Potter who is taking a deep appreciative sniff of the splash of whiskey in the glass Blaise has put in his hand. Hmmm, perhaps? But no, there’s no way I’d ever be able to share him.

I really need to stop thinking like this is a fait accompli. I mean, of course he would be mad to turn me down and I have it on good authority that he will say yes to me at some point, but that’s not to say I can’t be made to look an arse in the meantime. No, there will be no mooning like a lovesick puppy.

I need to be… not aloof, he’s not fond of aloof. Unless he is. I hadn’t needed Lovegood to point out that he’d always had a thing for watching me – not that I was watching him or anything, but he invariably had his gaze on me whenever I looked in his general direction. Of course, back then any look between us was loaded with intense loathing.

Potter is sipping his Firewhiskey exactly as Blaise did, with the same grotesque slurping sounds. He doesn’t carry it off nearly as well, particularly when he coughs and blurts out in a croaky voice, “Bloody hell, that’s got a bit of a kick to it.”

Blaise laughs, a deep mellow laugh that he rarely uses, and pushes another glass in front of Potter. “Try this one, it’s smoother.”

Potter makes a noise devastatingly close to a moan with that one and I feel it heat my insides alarmingly.

“Drink up, Malfoy,” Blaise says, the hint of amusement heavy in his tone. I realise I’ve been staring at Potter the whole time. The image of his adam’s apple sliding up and down in his throat is still playing on my mind as I gulp down the first and nearly spit it out again just as quickly.

“Fuck, Zabini, what _is_ that?”

“Horntail.”

Potter is laughing, a bright open sound that seems to fill me until I am about to bubble over with it. Pansy calls Blaise to come and help with some actual paying customers and I see my chance.

“So, tell me something, Potter,” I say, shoving my glass away. “Why did you stop being an Auror?”

His mouth turns down at the corners and he frowns at his replenished drink. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “In what way?”

“I know what it’s like to be a target and I know what it’s like to be a pawn, but they didn’t get that I wouldn’t be either of those things for anyone any more.”

“So you had a disagreement with Robards because he wanted to use you as bait,” I say.

He snorts and the look he gives me makes the breath catch, momentarily, in my throat. “I suppose you could say that. I’ve been asked to go back, but they can’t promise I’ll never be used in that way again.”

“What’s more important - being your own man or catching the villains?”

“It’s not that simple.” He is stroking his fingers along the grain of the bar over and over.

“Enlighten me,” I say, unable to tear my eyes away.

“There aren’t that many true villains.” His eyes flick up and hold mine. “We’re all capable of terrible things, it’s our choices that define us.” He’s quoting someone, I can tell from the inflection and the look in his eyes, the slight quirk of his lips. “But it’s not always that easy, is it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He looks back down at the bar. He’s worn a groove with his thumbnail.

“Don’t let Blaise see that or he’ll make a defining choice.”

Potter runs his finger across it and the mark disappears.

He’s almost as strange as Lovegood, but she doesn’t have this effect on me. I feel like I want to kiss his fingers - who wants to do things like that?

Blaise returns and we try a couple more drinks.

Potter drinks a few measures and he’s a happy, touchy-feely drunk – he is leaning against me in a way that suggests any sudden movements on my part will leave him flat on the floor. He has a rather lovely tipsy glow to his cheeks.

“Potter, I do believe you’re drunk,” I say, reaching up to touch the back of his neck. He looks surprised - perhaps the gesture is too affectionate for his Gryffindor sensibilities.

Blaise is smirking at me as though he knows exactly what my game is. Most likely he does. I’ve not made any secret of my preferences, though Potter has to be something of a surprise.

“An’ how come you arn’?” he asks, slurring dreadfully.

“I don’t always swallow,” I reply, laughing as he catches the double entendre and blushes an even deeper shade of red.

Blaise looks like he’s having some sort of a fit. “My arse!” he says.

I shoot him a glare, and he gives me one of his oh-so-sorrowful looks and pours Potter another measure.

“That and Zabini has been topping you up with more frequency than he has me.”

“Oh,” Potter says, looking bashful. “I c’n pay,” he says reaching for his wallet in his back pocket and nearly toppling off the stool. “Shit!” He grabs for me to stop his fall, clutching at the front of my robes.

It’s only because I don’t wish my best robes to be torn that rather than taking his weight, I lean in towards him, reaching out to steady him with my hands on his waist. Oh yes, that’s exactly how we happen to end up nose to nose.

Potter stills for a couple of beats, the air seems thicker and it crackles with the mingling of his magic with mine, and the desire for one or both of us to move just a fraction, instead of staring at one another as if we’ve both been Stunned.

I remember the moment that I realised I was attracted to the prick. It wasn’t when I was on the back of his broom, thank Merlin, that would have been terribly awkward, and besides I don’t think I was capable of any emotion other than overwhelming terror at that particular moment.

No, the first time I realised was when I was supposed to identify him with his ridiculously swollen and distorted, hairy face – as if anything could disguise his unmistakable green eyes. I’d known the moment he walked in.

I could barely look at him but there was no way out of it. Potter was as good as dead already and if I didn’t admit that I knew him then all I was doing was showing my hand. And yet… I couldn’t do it.

“Well, well,” Blaise’s voice interrupts, bringing me back to the present. “I don’t think I should serve you any more,” he says drily, interrupting the moment. “You won’t be able to get it up otherwise.”

He takes Potter’s glass away tipping the contents into his own mouth. He, of course, is perfectly poised despite the fact that he’s consumed more than either of us. It’s a good job that he’s a wizard, I would dread to think of the state of his liver were he a Muggleborn. Not that I am disparaging Muggleborns for their lack of magical organ healing. I’m long past that foolishness.

Potter grips the bar with both hands, white knuckled. “Where’s the loo?” he asks, as soon as he’s ascertained he really is on terra firma and not a sinking ship.

Blaise points it out and we watch Potter’s swaying gait as he makes his way across the floor.

“A little too much,” Blaise comments, as Potter nearly knocks himself out with the door.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “A little?”

“It’s hardly my fault that Gryffindors are more used to butterbeers and pumpkin juice.”

I snort. “Oh come on, Zabini, you were trying to get him smashed.”

“Want me to give him a Sobering draught?” he asks.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” I reply in my most snotty tone of voice. I’d forgotten he keeps that on hand for those who are not lovers but fighters after a few drinks.

Potter is gone an awfully long time and I find myself glancing anxiously at the door to the gents more than once.

“I’d better go and make sure you haven’t managed to kill him off,” I say, getting up and smoothing down my robes. Blaise gives me a knowing look and I am sorely tempted to childishly stick out my tongue at him – perhaps I am a touch more inebriated than I thought.

Blaise reaches down under the bar and passes me a small bottle filled with a disgusting looking pink concoction with globs of yellow floating in it. I feel ill just looking at it, but I don’t have to drink it.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome,” Blaise replies, wiping off the bar.

Potter is leaning over one of the sinks, his hands gripping the sides. His face is wet, hair plastered down across his forehead where he’s splashed water on himself. He looks rather green around the edges.

“Zabini sent this for you,” I say, without preamble, holding up the little bottle for him to see. “It’s a Sobering draught.”

Potter reaches out with one hand, not looking, and I place the little bottle in his palm - our fingers brushing deliciously, though I don’t kid myself that it even registers with Potter in the shape he’s in.

He doesn’t even look at it. Eyes closed he uncorks it and tips it back, swallowing it down quickly with that glorious bob of his adam’s apple. For a moment it looks like it’s going to come straight back up as Potter goes greener than ever, his body bowed and then it’s over.

“Shit, that was worse than the Horntail,” he says, sounding slightly breathless, but without a trace of a slur and his colour is returning to normal.

“I’m afraid that can’t be helped,” I say. “I shan’t tell you exactly what goes into that potion - suffice to say there is no way to disguise the taste.”

He nods, regarding me in the mirror above the sink. It strikes me that now the boot is on the other foot, so to speak – Potter is entirely sober whilst I am buzzing pleasantly with the warmth of Firewhiskey in my belly. Not drunk, not by any stretch of the imagination, but everything seems softer, less dangerous, as though the sharp edges of the world have been worn down.

“Potter,” I say, stepping forward, our gazes locked, in the mirror.

I am half afraid to touch him, as if that might break the spell, but when I do it only strengthens it. He turns to me, the flush back in full force.

“Do you want to come back to mine?” he asks.

~o~

Potter… Perhaps I should start calling him Harry, since he’s naked. Old habits. Not the nakedness, obviously. Though perhaps I would have started calling him Harry a long time ago if that were the case. Perhaps we would be at the stage of thoroughly inappropriate nicknames by now. I have an overwhelming desire to giggle at the idea of calling him “my hero” in the throes of passion. Though, of course, Malfoys do not giggle.

His eyes linger on my lips for a moment then jerk up to study my expression. “Are you taking the piss? If this is a joke, Malfoy-“

I’m not surprised, I would no doubt be asking myself the same thing if I were in his shoes and I can’t seem to keep a straight face. The idea of us is too ludicrous.

“I’m not taking the piss,” I say. “But it is rather amusing, don’t you think? Considering our history.”

He looks anxious at that, so I slide my hand up behind his head to pull him in for a long, lingering kiss. It’s supposed to be soft. I meant it to be soft and sensual, but Potter of course gets carried away, jabbing his tongue inside my mouth.

I tug on a hank of his hair.

“Ow!” He sits back glaring at me, looking like he has a curse on the tip of his tongue.

“A little finesse, Potter, please.”

He rubs a hand over his chaotic hair. “Are you sure you really want to do this with me? It’s just… you seem to want something… someone that isn’t me.”

It’s a strange thought, but I think about the Harry in the Room of Requirement and the fourth floor boys’ bathroom and whilst the man in front of me is the same person on one level, he _is_ very different. And I can’t deny I like the older version of him too, rather a lot.

“I’ve always had something of a crush on you,” I say, wondering if that could possibly be true.

He bursts out laughing. “Yeah, right.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “Have you never heard the expression _there’s a thin line between love and hate_? In your case it was non-existent. You were supposed to be my friend, you cruel bastard.”

“ _I’m_ the cruel bastard? You were a little shit!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Potter, are you going to argue with me or are you going to fuck me?”

He growls – I swear to Merlin, he actually does growl. Out loud. Like an untrained crup scenting blood for the first time – and tugs on my ankles, dragging me down the bed.

“I said finesse, you git,” I complain as he unceremoniously lifts my legs over his shoulders and proceeds to jab his tongue elsewhere into my person until all I can do is moan and push my arse against his face, demanding _more, harder, faster, oh fuck, oh for the love of… fuuuuck_ jerking myself off to the rhythm he sets, and I come like the Hogwarts Express.

I suppose his way does have its merits.

His cock, when he joins me further up the bed, is hard as stone. It must hurt. He must _ache_ with need. He tries to kiss me and I turn so he catches my cheek.

“You don’t think I’m going to let you kiss me after where your mouth has just been, do you?”

He looks momentarily stunned. “It was your arse, Malfoy.”

“What, not going to call me Draco after your tongue’s been intimate with my nether regions?” I say, sweetly.

I grab my wand off the bedside table and clean his mouth out. “There, minty fresh.”

“You know that’s incredibly invasive.”

“Says the man who just shoved his tongue up my arse.”

He snorts and presses his chest against mine. I’m prepared this time. His kisses have the urgency of a desperate man and he is soon thrusting frantically against the mattress.

I push him away and he looks like he might be trying to murder me with his mind. “Turn over,” I say.

He rolls on his back, his cock juts up, looking even more angry and red than the rest of him. I wrap my hand around it and he flops back, groaning, his arm across his face as if he can’t stand to let me see him fall apart.

I wandlessly Accio some lubricant, which shoots out of the bedside table drawer, and drizzle it over his twitching cock. He’s beautiful, head to toe and everything in between - and incredibly hairy which excites me for some reason - but his cock is just gorgeous. My mouth is watering, and perhaps I should have gone down on him, but I am almost mesmerised at the slow slip and slide of his cock appearing and disappearing as I stroke my hand up and down.

I move round, so that I’m sitting with his legs around my waist and mine either side of his body. He rubs his hand up and down my calf, watching me now, his eyes steadily boring into me. I like it… I like being the sole recipient of his full attention.

I touch his balls, rolling them around and testing the weight and texture of them against my palm.

He’s undulating his hips, up and back, his breaths coming harsher, stuttering every now and then, when I do something that warrants it. His hand has fallen away, grasping the sheets in a death grip, and his legs tighten and relax around me.

When I look up again his eyes have fallen closed and his breaths are interspersed with little moans. I don’t speed up, though he demands it with his body - rocking his hips up, his legs flailing. I stroke a hand across his quivering belly, soothingly.

“I need to come,” he says, and then, “I’m going to come.” His voice is almost calm, though his body is wound so tight I’m surprised he hasn’t broken already. When he does it is almost violent. His come spurts high in the air before splattering back down against his chest and chin, his body shuddering and shivering. I keep stroking him through the aftershocks until the sounds he makes take on a pained sound - so tempting to keep going until he’s pleading for me to stop. I think I just like the idea of Potter begging.

And then it’s over and he relaxes so completely I think he might have fallen asleep already.

“Potter?” I say, into the still night air, jabbing my toes up into his armpit.

“Think you c’d call me Harry, now you’ve made me cover myself in spunk?”

“I’ll think about it.”

I unwrap his legs from around my waist, grabbing my wand to clean the bed before I settle down next to him.

Harry Potter is a cuddler. I don’t know why I’m surprised.

~o~

I wake the next morning inside a furnace. There is sweat trickling down the small of my back, Potter’s arms wrapped around me, hugging me close to his body.

Despite the discomfort I am unwilling to wake him, which is such a frightening thought that I reach back and slap his arse as hard as I can - not very, considering I’m being squeezed to death.

“Mnnnn, kinky,” he murmurs against my hair.

“Dear me, you haven’t lived if you think that’s kinky,” I say.

“Lived, twice.” His voice is muffled and I think he’s…

“Potter, are you kissing my hair?”

“S’only bit I c’n reach,” he says.

I roll over and he kisses me, his breath still has a faintly minty tang to it – my charms really are that good. The kiss deepens and I rub against him, he rubs back and so it goes until we are frotting like teenagers, legs tangled up in each other and the sheets. He comes first, looking smug as if that’s something to be proud of, and he squeezes my arse as I slip slide my way to the finish.

He asks me if I’m staying for breakfast and I decline on principle. I get dressed, allowing him a kiss or two before escaping into the cold morning.

Miles from home, I am about to Apparate when an irrational fear grips me. What if…

Irritation rises quickly, my father admonishing me for fearfully dithering in a back-alley that reeks of rotten vegetables and dead things.

I think about home.

~o~

Fuck.

Fuck it all, this is _not_ my home. Not any more.

Had I thought that being faced with the cabinet was a nightmare? Had I really?

I haven’t seen this hallway since I was nineteen, when the Ministry decided that the Manor could be put to better use than remaining in my family’s possession. I had no desire to stay - it was almost a relief, until I saw the place that was considered a fair exchange.

The hallway is deserted as far as I can tell, thank Merlin for small mercies, but I can hear raised voices. I can’t make out who is talking or what they are saying, and I don’t want to. My heart is knocking hard against my ribs and I back up.

What, no Potter? I hadn’t realised I was expecting his presence until I am backed against the cold, hard, unyielding wall. This is ridiculous. I could be discovered at any moment… or could I? If I had been captured coming back here, I’m sure I’d know. It would have been used against me.

I straighten up, pulling my shoulders back, lifting my chin. It’s not like I need Potter’s help. Please, I’m not quite that pathetic yet.

I still have my wand and cast a Disillusionment charm over myself. I should leave - get out whilst I still can, before someone notices me. I’m not going to kid myself that it’s not possible. But something has hold of me. I feel as though I am being tugged by an invisible thread.

I tiptoe along the hallway. I still remember every inch of it. Past the morning room and the grand staircase to the small function room. The door is open a crack, but just as I’m about to lean forward to see what’s happening there is an almighty crash as the chandelier crashes down. Frozen on the spot, I can _feel_ the moment that the wand leaves my possession.

I look down at my wand hand, but my own wand is still there, poised and ready.

I can hear screams and curses, and I know that any moment I’ll be discovered - no way to avoid it, any second they will pour from the room and bump right into me.

A warm, calloused hand slips into mine, pulling me away with a haste belied by gentleness. He pulls me under the cover of his invisibility cloak and we press up against the wall as close as we can get.

Aunt Bellatrix is the first out of the door, screaming bloody murder, pushing aside the snatchers as she goes. My father strides out behind them, but he doesn’t look as confident as he’s trying to appear. Mother and I are last. Mother’s arm around my shoulders, my head hanging down. I try to remember exactly what I was thinking and feeling at that moment, but it’s impossible when Potter is derailing every one of my thoughts just with his mere presence. His hand is resting against my thigh. A familiar touch.

“Do you know what I was doing last night?” I ask.

He turns to look at me, but I keep my eyes forward. “No,” he says at last.

I must not tell him anything - if it’s true that he’s here for me - then he must be here on trust.

“You,” I say. “Our first time.”

He laughs, a delicious warm huff of breath against my ear. I’m hard as a rock. How on earth that is possible in this situation I don’t know, but I can’t seem to ignore it.

I turn towards him and catch his hand as he starts pull it away. Strange the way something so flimsy as a cloak can make one feel almost invulnerable. Or perhaps it’s Potter. This is ridiculous… stupid, even. But I can feel his excitement, the thrill of something dangerous. It’s definitely Potter: things that would make normal people die of fright turn him on.

“When did you first realise that you were attracted to me?” I ask.

“You really are unbelievable,” he says.

“What? It’s not like I can change anything. Are you embarrassed to tell me or something?”

“You asked me this before.”

“Perhaps I like hearing it.”

He rounds on me, pressing against me and now I don’t just know he’s excited, I can feel it. “I think you like the idea of having me wrapped so tightly around your little finger that you have no idea you’re already wrapped around mine.”

I open my mouth to object, but he presses his fingers against my lips. “You have to be quiet, remember?”

I pull his hand away. “You were nothing like this last night,” I whisper, furiously. I’m not sure whether I’m more angry that he’s laughing at me or that I seem to find him like this even more arousing.

“It was my first time with a man,” he says.

“No.” I can’t think of another thing to say.

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging.

“But you… fucking hell, you stuck your tongue in me. Weren’t you in the least bit nervous?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t say it was the first time I’d ever rimmed anyone.”

I wonder for a moment if he’s joking. It seems like the sort of obnoxious thing he’d find funny, but he’s not laughing.

“You’d only ever slept with women?”

“You read the papers.”

“I do not!” I say rather too loudly and he covers my mouth again, this time with his lips. I melt into the kiss. It feels familiar, but different, certainly more practised and he knows exactly what I like, none of that jabbing with the tongue, but it’s not a soft kiss. I feel it to my toes.

“There’s no need to pretend with me, Draco,” he says, coming up for air. “I know you: the good, the bad and the downright humiliating.” I want to ask if I know him that well too, but he’s still talking. “I didn’t cheat on Ginny, there were a few dates after that - no spark - and then there was you.”

I’m desperate to know, utterly desperate. I rub against him and he hums, low in his throat. “And with me?” I prompt him, shamelessly reaching round to stroke his arse.

He murmurs something that sounds like _impossible_ … something and then he’s opening my robes reaching inside.

“Fuck, I love it when you go commando,” he says. I have no idea what he means, but his hand is right there, wrapped around my cock, stroking hard and fast.

“I see you’ve yet to learn any finesse,” I say, but the catch in my voice and my breathlessness give me away.

He stops kissing my neck long enough to whisper, “With you it was… is… Fiendfyre.” A shiver runs down my spine and he whispers, “Sorry. But that’s what it feels like to me: overwhelming, impossible to control, terrifying. God I want to fuck you, right now.”

He undoes his jeans with his free hand, still stroking my cock with the other - talented bastard. Stepping close again, until his erection is nuzzled close against mine, and he can wrap his hand around both.

He’s like a force of nature. I could come like this, easily, but I know that he wouldn’t. “I want you to fuck me,” I say, intoxicated with the idea of it. Here in the hallway of the Manor, under his cloak. I don’t know if I’m joking or not.

His hand stills and he looks at me.

“So, it is possible for me to still surprise you, good to know.”

“God, Draco, I-”

I shut him up with a kiss. I’m not ready for whatever he has to say that goes with such a serious expression.

My fingers dig into the layer of fat that has softened his waist. He tries to pry me loose, but I just push up his shirt and press my chest against his. He squeezes my backside so hard it hurts, it hurts so wonderfully I frot against him in a frenzy, burying my head in the crook of his neck to keep quiet.

He is still rubbing against me. I reach down between us and join my hand with his. He gazes at me with the same intensity of the night before, but unlike it in that he is completely in control. 

There is a violent tug in my navel as he Apparates us out of there. To the same grotty hovel he brought me to before, the smell is unmistakable, but I don’t have time to think about it. He throws off the cloak and pulls me close, kissing me hard, pushing his tongue against my lips until I accept him in. His hands are on my backside, squeezing and stroking, pressing against the cleft, sending tingling shocks up and down.

He stops kissing me to pull my robes up above my waist, and I see just how desperately he wants me - it sends a surge of lust through me, my cock jerking and leaving a glistening spot against his shirt.

“I have to fuck you,” he says, an almost pained expression on his face. “I need to-” He doesn’t finish, instead he turns me and pushes me against the grimy wall. Pressing a finger slippery with conjured lubricant inside me, finger fucking me until I am arching back and meeting every thrust of that single finger which isn’t enough.

“Potter,” I say, meaning to sound commanding, angry even, but I’m high on lust and I sound _broken_.

It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t need me to say anything. I feel him pushing his jeans down his thighs and spreading my arse cheeks wide so he can watch himself sliding inside me.

Once he’s in - groaning _fuck, Draco, you’re so ready for me_ \- he goes hard and fast, skin slapping against skin. I wish I could see the way his arse flexes. I wish I could see his face. He pushes his chest against my back, his lips barely there against my neck, hot breaths kissing me. My cheek pressed to the wall, moisture sliding down like tears.

Potter’s vocabulary is for shit when he gets close, but mine is no better.

I arch my back, rolling my hips back again and again, and he cries out, a strangled sound, reaches round and his hand on my cock.

Everything feels unbearably tight, like my skin has shrunk and any moment I am going to burst out of it entirely. I should be coming… should have come already.

“Please… fuck, Harry, _please_.” I’m beyond caring what I sound like, I need it like I need oxygen. I need it or I’m going to die. 

I think he might laugh at me, but he draws a sharp breath and the fingers holding my hip steady dig in hard. “You’re so beautiful, so good.” His hips snap forward and back at a frantic pace and his hand races over my cock. He’s whispering something against the nape of my neck, I can’t hear, I can feel.

It’s like being led to the edge of a precipice and pushed over, only to find flight.

I slump forward, taking Potter’s shuddering climax. He slides his hand up under my robes, stroking my side as we both come down. He kisses my neck. It’s a little late for tenderness, but that’s what I get - damp kisses along my jaw, trying to kiss my mouth. I turn and kiss him, and he moans softly.

He looks devastated and I have to turn away.

He holds me for a while, before refastening my robes wandlessly and smoothing the creases from them. “I’ll see you soon,” he says, and I want to ask whether he’s talking about himself now or his younger self.

I want to hold on to him. I’m irrationally fearful that he knows something I don’t and that I’ll never see him again.

~o~

I arrive back in my own home. Just inside the front door, imagining I can still feel the rapid beat of his heart against my back.

I send Granger an owl, detailing this latest trip. It’s half hearted - I want to know what’s happening to me and why I keep travelling like this, but… I don’t want to stop it any more.

I want all of Potter - the inexperienced young man and the one who knows me already. I’m too impatient to wait for him to become that man. We already defy logic, what’s one more thing to add to the list?

When I turn up at the lab a few days later, Granger is practically vibrating with excitement. She gets right down to it.

“When you tried to destroy the vanishing cabinet with the axe, you somehow that formed a chain… a working chain of magic.” She is talking far too fast for me to follow, even if she wasn’t talking utter gibberish. I must look as baffled as I feel because she gets that impatient, slightly irritated look. “Don’t you see?” I shake my head.

She looks around wildly and I wonder for a moment if she’s going to conjure a board and draw me a diagram. “When the axe split the wood of the cabinet, the magic of each reacted with the other. If you’d have thrown the axe the outcome would have been different, but because you held on to it you became another link. You repaired the cabinet. You always repaired the cabinet. But in doing so you took on some of the characteristics of the items you used - the cabinet is a passage between two places, it was just interpreted in your body as a passage between different times as well as places.”

I blink at her. “But… how?”

She shakes her head impatiently, “I suspect anything that made you start thinking so intensely about the past would have triggered it, but it seems that Apparition plays a part in it too… a combination of the two things reacting. I think you had some idea of that already. But the study wasn’t the cause.” She looks vindicated. Smug even.

“What about the axe?”

“That split the time-line, which is why you keep turning up in the times that were critical in your past,” she says, full of confidence. “And I’m sure the time travel could work in different ways that we don’t know about yet.” She is looking sympathetic but underneath I can see her enthusiasm for such a fascinating puzzle.

I don’t know what to say all that comes out is, “Oh.”

“So, this is important, you have to stop thinking about the past, focus on the present, until we can fix you.”

The whole thing seems insane enough to be one of Lovegood’s theories. Eventually I find my voice, “How do you suggest I do that? As far as I know I _wasn’t_ thinking about the past when I got shoved back in time.” I don’t see any need to mention that I no longer want to stop. That more than ever I want to return.

She regards me thoughtfully, “If it happens again before we work out how to reverse the fusion you could try asking your older Harry for a solution. After all he knows your situation, and... _someone_ has worked out how to get you back to your present via him." She can't quite suppress a confident smirk. "From what he said your future self knows the answers, so I wouldn’t worry too much. Besides, I’m sure that Harry will make up for any mild inconvenience you’ve had.”

I have half a mind to tell her that _no, it bloody well doesn't_. I'm outraged that she should call what’s happened a mild inconvenience, given the horror of the times I’ve been thrown back to - times I would have preferred to erase from existence. Much as it pains me to admit it, she does have a point, though: Harry makes up for a lot.

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/87774.html).


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